Seduction & Ecstasy

It started off as many addictions did, I imagine.

Curiosity.

And if there was anything I both celebrated and feared about myself, it was that character trait. Ever-hated and always sated.

It had started off innocently. Boredom. I had run out of material to keep me busy and so I thought I’d try my hand at it. The fire that spread through my veins from producing and the notoriety that followed was pure seduction and sin in flavor. Sure, there were a few potholes along the way but with each stroke of my imagination and fingers, the taste and desire to continue down this path only grew.

The best creativity always stems from necessity and as I had run out of source materials of my previous addiction, I knew the only way to feed said addiction was to make things myself. Minutes turned into hours, turned into days, turned into sleepless nights.

The first signs that my new hobby had become a problem was loss of sleep and exhaustion. The second were my grades. I stopped attending my morning classes and at university, class attendance was more of a suggestion anyway. Justification was another gift of mine and I was spending it like lottery winnings. Grades followed my attendance down the drain and then my natural hermit tendencies bloomed, eventually bringing my best friend to my door in the name of a wellness check.

“What the hell? Are you alright? Are you sick?”

Hmm. I guess the side effects of my addiction was painted all over my face. I took a quick look in the mirror at my desk and was startled. The dark slide down the rabbit hole had been so subtle that I hadn’t noticed. Maybe it was also because I had left my room light off to discourage visitors and so couldn’t clearly see what my face had become. What I had become.

“Um …. yes? No …. ?”

“You look like shit. Like old shit that sat through a rainstorm.”

Any other day, I probably would have laughed at the image but today, irritation exploded in me and the only thing that kept it concealed was my skin and the fact that my face no longer moved. These days, I couldn’t afford the waste of energy.

“Are you okay?” I asked. I mean, why else would someone need to see me. “Do you need help with something?”

My friend scowled at me. “Right now, I need help to not kick your ass. You’ve ignored every call and text I’ve sent you. Multiple times a day, Erin. And now I’m pissed that you’re not dead because that’s the only acceptable reason my best friend would not text or call me back. That or a complete digital black out. What the hell is going on with you?”

I heard what she was saying. Well, I guess I should say I saw her talking to me but the words didn’t sink through my thick skull. All I heard was buzzing in my head because Stacia was standing in my space, pulling me away from what I was doing and she wasn’t leaving. She needed to leave. Now.

“Huh?”

“Erin.” Her face was contorted in anger and when I finally took a good look at her, the anger melted into worry. “What’s going on with you my friend? Are you in trouble? Are you depressed?”

What a strange conclusion. Is that really what I looked like?

“Not that I know of?” These days I only left my room for class and food. I didn’t have the time or energy to find trouble.

“No one has seen you around and some people have said that you just brush them off when they try to hang out with you.”

Well, I had more important stuff to do. I didn’t have time to mess around.

“I’ve been busy.”

“Doing what?” I heard the strain and frustration coloring her tone and it stroked my irritation. It was time for her to go.

“I’ve been working on a project that’s taken up a lot of my extra time but I’m alright. I promise.”

I saw that look in her eyes that said she wasn't buying my story.

“You need to get out of your room and breathe fresh air. I’m picking you up for dinner, even if I have to drag you out by your ears or hair.”

That wasn’t an idle threat so I agreed. She’d done it before, though it had been playful. I really needed her gone. My hands shook with the need to create, to build, to fill that yawning hole in me.

Once Stacia left, I made sure to lock the door behind her. I never locked the door when I was home but I was going to have to now. I couldn’t afford more interruptions like that. I was running out of time.

Dinner was awkward as hell. It was like a first date with someone who didn’t speak the same language as you. My skin itched the whole time, my hands were clammy and shaky. My heart was ready to rip itself out of my chest and run home and it was so hard to not regurgitate what I’d managed to swallow down at that point. What was happening to me? I felt irritation raising its ugly head the later it got and when I had cleaned my plate, much to Stacia’s surprise and relief, my exhaustion had caught up to me. She took me home and thanked me for coming out with her. Said it was nice to finally hang out again. I wish I could have said the same. Using the excuse of having to use the bathroom, I wished her a good night and locked the door behind her.

Now that I was home again, my irritation at being away for so long and the strange physical reactions I had during dinner had morphed into full-fledged anger. I sat down at my workspace and my fingers flew into action, finally being released from the cage of a social call. Death, destruction, devastation, and desperation flew from my fingertips and that ugly demon that rose in me was finally calm and satiated for the time being. It felt like I had finally emptied my bladder after not using the bathroom all day. The weight of everything falling off my shoulders was bliss. Ecstasy. This is where I belonged. Here.

My life had gone downhill soon after. Within a matter of weeks, I had no idea where I was or what I was doing. All that mattered, all I needed to do to survive was keep up with production. And then it happened. I crashed. Hard.

Curiosity, which had led to my addiction over time, had eventually saved my life or so my therapist suggested. Come to find out, depression had many paths, many masters, and many doors to escape through. Luckily for me, the door I chose was non-lethal. My self-neglect had gotten close to being dangerous but only because my depression had turned any physical hunger for food to passion for my craft.

And now, I stand here looking at the small workstation that had been a slippery and rather smooth transition into the void of my depression and the only thing that kept me afloat. Self-control isn’t so much an issue now that I knew where the origins of my addiction had truly come from. I still love creating and crafting and now that I have tools to keep my addiction in check, I could move forward with my life in a healthier way. With healthy habits. With suggestions from my therapist, I learned to set a timer on my phone to let me know when it was time to come up for air, how to make a quick meal to take with me so I make sure I actually eat. The next stage in my recovery was finding a support group that I could be accountable to.

My hands shake as I reach for the power button and brush aside the slight hesitation I feel at pushing it. My desktop computer blinks on and I listen with pleasure as it sings itself awake. Without realizing it, I finished humming the computer’s little start up ditty. My heart raced with excitement as I opened up the shortcut to my Google Drive folder that held all my original stories that I had started to write when I had run out of online stories to read. Post-therapy Me was able to see how the darkness had been purged from my heart and soul and onto the digital page. I had bled like a stuck pig from my heart, through my fingers, and onto the white screen that was littered with choking emotion and tear-stained nightmares. My addiction to writing had opened the chasm and allowed the pus of my soul drain.

It’s only been two years since I left my workstation and not looked back. I couldn’t without falling into old habits but I already feel stronger. I know I’m stronger. I recognize the feeling of free-falling now and can stop before I get too low.

With my peanut butter and jelly sandwich at my side and the timer on my phone set, I roll my head, stretch my arms, and sigh. It’s gonna be a great day. I’m back to doing what I love and have the ends of the stories ready to roll out. Sitting in my leather, form-contoured computer chair was enough to make me tingle with excitement. My heart danced at the familiarity of the setting, my fingers twitched with the need to create. Every stroke of the keys was a seduction I was more than ready to succumb to. The tension that had slowly built up over the past months began to lighten until I floated in literary ecstasy once again.

Alarm be damned.